The Long Ride Home
by Owlett
Summary: John's return to Baker Street after Sherlock's funeral. "God I wish this car was driving me to an abandoned warehouse. Anywhere but back to Baker Street." -Part 1 in the Post-Fall Series-


The limousine is excessive. Far more overstated than it needs to be. Than I wanted it to be. Truth be told I would rather have caught the bus or a cab. You would have insisted on a cab. Anything but this sleek black hired car. The interiors smell brand new. It reminds me of the night I first met Mycroft. The day I first met you. Sometimes I wish smell wasn't such a powerful trigger of memory. Mrs Hudson is sat next to me, sniffling and muttering but she may aswell be in an entirely different car for all I care. I was. I _am_. Alone. Completely alone. God I wish this car was driving me to an abandoned warehouse. Anywhere but back to Baker Street.

I can no longer stand staring at the fleshy beige of the leather seats. I glance out the window, fresh sheets of rain are coating the tar. The black shines in flashes of silver as headlights of passing cars drive by. The window is starting to become flecked with droplets obscuring my view so now that every time we pass a lit up shop window the drops burst with light and colour like a firework, like a car backfiring, like my gun when I fired at that crazy cabbie.

Oh God Sherlock. I can't go back. That was the start of everything and this, well this will can only lead to the end. My hand twitches towards the door handle. I have to fight the urge to rip it open and throw myself out. We aren't driving fast enough to do any serious damage, I'm sure I could roll out of the way of any oncoming cars. I would start running. Anywhere. Everywhere. Just away from here. From Baker Street.

Then I realise that Mycroft sees all. He would find me. He would drag me back. He has probably even child locked the damn doors. My hesitation has cost me the time I needed for a half decent chance at an escape. The car stops.

Mycroft's latest assistant with an alias who won't remember me turns from the front seat and gives me a small sympathetic smile, her blackberry clutched in her right hand, "You can get out now." I blink. Slow to respond. It takes me a few seconds to register that Mrs. Hudson has already been ushered out of the car by the driver and now my door sits ajar, drops of rain wetting the leather, speckling the sleeve of my jacket. "Oh, right. Yes of course." I pause, "Thankyou." She gives a small nod. I can't be sure if it is the grief or my general social awkwardness around Mycroft's minions but I still can't seem to speak properly to these women. _"To any women." _You'd no doubt add.

I slowly climb out of the car. I can feel my knee twinge as it takes my weight. Must be the cold. The long ride back from the cemetery. Or the most unfavorable option, and therefore all the more likely, the realisation that everything has changed. The car rolls away with a slow hiss as the tires drag slick with rain.

Once inside Mrs Hudson hangs her coat on the rack, "Would you like me to pop out and fetch us some biscuits? I can make us both a nice cup of tea. What do you say, hm?"

"No." I state far more firmly than I intended. I swallow thickly. I don't know how much longer I can keep the soldier composure together now that I'm standing back inside our flat. Our flat. _Ours. _Without you. "I'm sorry. What I meant is I'm fine. I think I will just head upstairs and lie down." Mrs. Hudson's eyes are still glossy from the tears she shed earlier. She steps forward embracing me in a hug that finishes with a squeeze. A squeeze with strength you wouldn't expect from her frame. The pressure almost causes me to break down right there on the staircase; it's as if she has pushed all the grief up from inside my stomach. Releasing me she steps back, nods, and takes one of my hands in hers. "I'll be down here if you change your mind." I take in a shaky breath and utter a "Thanks."

I place my foot steady on the landing. The stairs seem monumental. I take the first two with little trouble but on the fourth my knee unexpectedly gives out beneath me. I catch myself on the railing just in time, swearing angrily to myself.

It isn't the pain so much that's the problem, deep down I know it is in my head, just like my therapist does. Just like you do. Did. Past tense. I can't stay on the stairs Mrs. Hudson will never give me any peace if she thinks I'm injured. I take in an uneven stream of air and reattempt my ascent, gritting my teeth and gripping the banister with fierce determination.

Our apartment door is unlocked. Odd. I thought I locked it but perhaps I didn't. For a moment I consider the possibility that you got here before me, followed by an anvil of realisation that of course you didn't. God John you're an idiot. You would know. Always did. Always said. Doesn't matter, I have nothing worth stealing.

My intention was to go to the kitchen but I don't think I can make it past the living room. Collapsing in my chair, sodden coat and all, I ease my shoes off with my toes, too exhausted to even bend down. Huh. It appears I have worn a hole in my right toe. Not only that but the nail is cracked and covered in dry blood. I don't recall stubbing it on anything. I wriggle it. No pain. I try to think of when it could have happened. The fall in the stairwell? No far too recent. I look up, despite myself, to your chair where you have spent many an hour perched, staring into nothing, staring at a piece of evidence, staring at me. You'd know how I'd hurt my toe. Probably could even tell me when and where I brought the socks. I can't remember. I can't even work out how I hurt my own foot. Ridiculous. What's worse is I'm not going to know. I'm going to have to get used to not knowing aren't I? I never realised how much I took that for granted. Yes there is google but it isn't bloody well going to tell me where I left my keys or the entire family history of the checkout assistant at Tesco is it?

I wriggle my toes some more. Despite my exhaustion I am filled with nervous energy. It is this room. I can't associate it with peace and quiet. And this is in no way a peaceful quiet. It is thick. It is heavy. It is suffocating me.

Heaving myself off the couch I walk over to the window and open it, letting the cool night air blow in. I lean my head out and inhale deeply. The winter chill stings my lung in an almost satisfying way. Last time I stood at this window we were discussing whether or not you were a fraud. I called you a dick. I didn't mean it. Well I did. A bit. But you knew that. You knew it was in jest, right? You call people such horrible things all the time. People called, call, are calling you such horrible things even now. It doesn't seem right. They call you fantastic, brilliant, remarkable when it suits them, when they need you, but once they're done it is back to freak, creep, fake.

I clench my fist, feeling the tears I have been fighting since the cemetery roll down my cheek. Can it really only be me who called you extraordinary to your face? Can all of London be so bloody stupid that they can't see the difference between a genius and a psychopath?

That night we ran cuffed together, me playing the part of the hostage, we were practically holding hands. All those assumptions people made. All the scathing looks. They didn't matter at all. Only surviving did. I held the cuff of your coat for dear life. That stupid coat. Always making a statement. Always showing off.

Sometimes I felt like you were showing me off. Initially I was worried I was part of some social experiment you were conducting. When you called me your friend that day to Sebastian you caught me off guard, you told me yourself you didn't have friends. I suppose I shouldn't have listened to what Donovan and the rest of them had said about you. But I knew next to nothing about you and you, well, you know almost everything about everyone. I was scared. Maybe it is the nature of war or just something in my genetics but I can never really let myself go. Never fully emotionally invest. I often find myself thinking, 'Do people ever look at the ones they love and wonder, "Oh god, what have I done?"' Knowing that they have created this connection, one that will hurt them so much should they lose it. It just doesn't seem worth the risk. But then again you were always one to take risks.

A cab has pulled up outside our apartment. I hold my breath. I don't know why. I don't know what I'm expecting. Mycroft? Lestrade? A client? You?

A couple get out, the man shields his partner with a coat as they dash out into the rain, laughter spilling about. Two people giggling in the rain.

I can't stay here. No one will want to share an apartment with me. I know that. We both knew that. It is why this worked, whatever this was. Furthermore no one will want to touch this place. Except the media, I am sure they would love to parade through here, like it was some kind of museum, "The Home of Sherlock Holmes, The World's only Consulting _Defective_"

They would tear you apart. Pun after pun. I can't let that happen. I _won't_ let that happen. I will speak to Mycroft tomorrow about keeping this place locked up, maybe he will agree to continue to pay the rent, I can get a small one bedroom apartment somewhere downtown. Work extra shifts. Offer to pay half. Offer to pay half the rent of an empty apartment. Just in case. Just in case of what?

I look across the city a deep red glow tints the horizon. The sun has set now. Sunk down like a stone into the murky grey of this rainy evening. I'm surprised I can even distinguish it through the clouds, perhaps it is just city lights and smog playing tricks.

I focus in on my reflection in the glass. I look especially pale and oddly transparent, like a ghost.

This apartment will stay. I will not.


End file.
